


Keeping Control

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Classical conditioning, In which Jim uses sex to control Sebastian, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, and keep the sniper bonded to him, operant conditioning, the creepy bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 19:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sebastian suffers a PTSD-induced nightmare, only Jim can fix it for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Control

_Kabul, mid-July. The ground is hard and cracked under Sebastian’s ribs. There hasn’t been a single cloud in the sky for days and the air is thick with heat. Even after three months, the skilled sniper hasn’t acclimatised and, as the sun beats down on the back of his neck, he’s beginning to give up hope of ever doing so._

_A bead of sweat forms at his temple. It glistens in the blinding sunlight, hanging for a brief second before breaking free and trickling down his damp forehead. Yet again, he swipes his hand across his eyes to clear them. A light breeze stirs, sending thousands of tiny dust particles into the air, each inexplicably drawn to the smooth glass of the scope. Sebastian sighs, pulls himself to his haunches and reaches into the deep pocket of his ghillie suit for a rag._

_Then all hell breaks loose._

_The silence is shattered by a burst of rapid gunfire. An avalanche of bullets rains down and chunks of earth erupt all around. The spotter shouts. The sound is meaningless beneath the voice screaming orders into Sebastian’s earpiece, the harsh crack of the rifles, the clang of metal on metal as casings ricochet off their equipment. The message, however, is clear: position compromised, retreat with haste._

_Sebastian’s heart hammers. He falls to his stomach, hauls his rifle closer. Dirty hands scrabble for purchase; a bullet almost takes his index finger off. His thoughts scatter, organise and bond in that curious way that has become legendary amongst the squadron. He collapses the rifle with one hand, grapples with the safety on his pistol holster with the other - all while calculating the risks of several possible plans. His chin drops to his chest. Protect the face; keep the armoured helmet forward. Frantic hands pull at his shoulders, desperately trying to haul him upright._

_“Get down!” he yells. Another explosion and the grip slackens for a second before the full weight of a twenty-six year old man – three months into his first tour of duty as a spotter, eight years’ service, enlisted straight out of school after failing seven of his ten GCSEs, married, two boys aged six and four – crashes into Sebastian’s back._

_A few seconds more and the gunfire slows, sputters, stops._

_Sebastian sucks in a shaky breath. His lungs burn, crushed under the weight of soldier plus thirty-pound backpack. He coughs into the dirt, rotates his shoulder as sharply as he dares. It’s enough to begin the momentum. The backpack does the rest and the body begins a slow roll, coming to a halt on the compacted mud next to him, head flopping to the side. Sebastian squeezes his eyes shut, his body trembling uncontrollably as he waits for the onslaught to begin again._

_Several minutes pass. Nothing. Nothing beyond those small gusts of wind and the grit battering his face. He cautiously opens one eyelid. A single, bright blue eye stares right back. A mass of pulped meat and gore marks the place where the other should be. The mouth - a perpetual grin now the lips have been torn away - is nothing but a wide, bloody hole filled with what used to be teeth, tongue, gums, smiling down at Sebastian, mocking him, blaming him. He should have moved when he was told, should have somehow known the attack was coming from – where? He tears his gaze away to examine the ground. Deep gouges in the packed mud show they’d been behind them all along. How long had they been sneaking up, watching the sniper and spotter team track their target? Minutes? Hours?_

_Sebastian swallows hard and it tastes of bile and dirt. He suppresses a choke, spits instead, tenses against his body’s screams to say ‘fuck it’ to his training and run. Control will have heard everything. Support will be on its way. Sit tight. Don’t move. Be dead._

_He strains for any sound that means he won’t be left out here to die with nothing but a corpse for company, but the rush of blood is getting louder, dancing around inside his head alongside phantom echoes of gunfire. His vision becomes sharper, more focussed, or maybe he’s just imagining the world in such startling high definition. The eye still stares and all he can see is the slow dilation of the pupil as dead muscles relax. It won’t stop staring, telling him he’s failed the mission and why didn’t he stop it and why didn’t he save his partner because that’s their job. They’re supposed to look out for each other and what’s he going to say to those two small boys, four and six, because the little one’s just started school and his Daddy has a photo of him wearing his brand new shirt and tie duct-taped inside his uniform, right next to his heart._

_There. More shouting. They’re coming. Sebastian dares to breathe, a sharp inhalation through his teeth to protect his throat from the dust. He doesn’t move. The voices grow gradually louder and there are footsteps now. At least three men are coming, running down the hill, vaulting over the small clusters of rock and foliage. They’re almost on top of Sebastian by the time the ringing in his ears dissipates enough for him to realise he can’t understand a damn word they’re saying._

_He pushes off and rolls to his back, lifts and levels his pistol in one smooth motion. With no time to calm himself or breathe through the shot, he fires at centre mass. One man goes down. That leaves three to throw themselves at him and the training kicks in once again. No resistance. He releases his hold on the gun and allows one of them to wrench it from his grasp. Another goes for the rifle. He lifts his hands, palms out in the universal sign of surrender. Even as Sebastian is hauled to his feet, memories flood his brain: the suffocating darkness, the cramping pain of starvation, the sleep deprivation, the constant stream of water that seeped through the cloth over his face and invaded his nostrils, his mouth, going down his throat and he couldn’t breathe and was choking and had dislocated his shoulder struggling against the restraints only this time it isn’t training because this time it’s real and they’re not going to release him and send him to the doctor and the psychiatrist for evaluation and slap him on the back and tell him he’s passed SERE training, the clever boy._

_This time, he’s probably going to die._

*****

Sebastian’s head spun. Flashes of never-ending darkness and impenetrable walls squirmed at the barrier between sleep and wake. His lungs screamed. Phantom doors slammed shut, their deafening clangs leaving his ears ringing as barked orders in a language he’d never had the time to learn bounced off every surface. His heart raced and his trembling hands twisted into the pillow, veins standing out and knuckles blanching white under the pressure. The single breath he managed to suck through gritted teeth caught in his throat and panic took hold. His body convulsed, hands flying to his throat to claw desperately at a rag that had been pulled away ten years before.

For a full minute, the only sounds were the erratic gasps being forced from Sebastian’s lungs. A low tone sounded from the bedside table. It scratched insistently at his consciousness before sidling into a small chink in the barrier and pulling him through. He shuddered. Oh-five-hundred. Jim would be expecting him in an hour. Jim. His hands stilled on the self-inflicted welts. One bloodshot eye opened to a slit, gaze fixing on the blank wall opposite.

Behind him, the bed sagged, the wood of the frame creaking in protest. Before his brain had time to process the thought, Sebastian had darted to the space between the frame and mattress, his chest pounding.

“Calm down, Tiger.”

The order came in a low, even tone. Sebastian’s hand froze on the pistol. His skin prickled and the cold sweat instantly felt colder.

“What do you want?”

The hand that settled between Sebastian’s shoulder blades was warm, almost apologetic.

“The news was on earlier. You flinched.” Jim sighed. “It really is a terrible business, isn’t it? War.”

_Stupid._

Sebastian buried his head into the pillow. The mild thrum of blood rushing through his ears steepened to a roar. He took a deep breath, holding it for several seconds before exhaling as slowly as his body would allow.

“Doesn’t give you the right to break into my fucking house.”

“It’s not breaking in if I have a key,” Jim’s voice danced over the words, rising to a mocking lilt at the end. After a weighted pause, he continued. “Do you miss it?”

Sebastian’s hands tightened into fists. He said nothing, but the pressure on his back increased regardless.

“Your heartbeat is still elevated.”

As if on cue, the sniper’s chest lurched. He turned, shrugging off the hand before rolling to his back and throwing an arm across his eyes. Behind the lids, flares still blazed. Jim rotated his neck in that strange way of his, tongue flicking out over dry lips as his gaze roamed freely over newly-exposed skin. He took his time – examined every scar, every muscle, every sinew – before stopping at the pool of sheets at his employee’s waist.

“The flashbacks. What are they of?”

Beneath the cover of his arm, Sebastian’s expression contorted into a scowl. After a few seconds with still no response, Jim spoke again.

“Completely normal for a man of your background. There’s a certain irony to it, of course, but…”

He trailed off and brought his hand up again, this time resting it directly above Sebastian’s heart. “Calm down,” he repeated. The slight stutter beneath his fingertips brought forth a smile. He traced the hard pectoral muscle carefully, keen eyes following each pass over the sculpted lines. The pounding began to slow.

“There we go,” he drawled as his lips pulled back into a wide grin. “Good boy.”

Sebastian dropped his arm and turned to look at his boss for the first time since waking. He started to deliver an archetypal curse but his voice cracked on the first syllable. Immediately, he clamped his mouth shut. Too many times, he’d spoken without ensuring his guard was firmly in place, and the proprietary hand on his chest served as a stark reminder as to exactly where that had gotten him.

Next to him, Jim’s eyes remained firmly fixed on his, although the movement of his fingers had become idle. With every downward pass, his hand dipped lower. He flattened his palm over the warming skin and let out a contented hum.

“I don’t think you really mind me being here, anyway,” he said. He tilted his head to one side and considered the slowly relaxing abdominal muscles before him. His tongue flicked out again, this time barely touching his lips before retreating. Sebastian swallowed and inhaled deeply. He gave a slow shake of his head as he exhaled through his nose.

Jim stopped at Sebastian’s hip, his fingers just breaching the soft white Egyptian cotton of the sheet. Two scars stood out starkly against Sebastian’s tanned torso. One was clearly a gunshot wound – round and almost crater-like in appearance. Deeper at the centre. Above it, a single thin line marked the entry point where Jim’s surgeon had gone in to repair the torn muscle. Although long-healed and usually void of any sensation, the marred skin tingled as deft fingers danced over it. With one simple touch, Sebastian was transported back several years to the day it had happened. Even before knowing any more than a name and the pay cheque, the soldier-turned-junkie-gambler had come close to dying for “M”. He’d promised to protect and had done exactly that, shoving the man behind him and taking a bullet himself. It wasn’t until several days later he learned that he’d very nearly died for the sake of an expendable lackey. Sebastian Moran. Loyal from the very first moment and now - five years later - he looked up at Jim from beneath hooded lids, jaw set and pupils blown wide. Exploratory fingers brushed over the bullet’s entry point. Sebastian winced. He covered Jim’s hand with his own, eyes flashing darkly as he pulled it away.

“Don’t.”

The word had been intended as an order, but his voice betrayed him and the result was barely a whisper. With a soft rustle of bed sheets, Jim moved to lie down, propping his head up with the heel of his hand. He moulded the other around Sebastian’s hipbone and tugged gently.

“This way.”

Sebastian allowed himself to be guided onto his side. He forced his expression to remain blank, even as Jim’s hand came up once again to give his stomach an almost affectionate pat before slipping beneath the sheet. He couldn’t even begin to count the number of times they’d done this - or some version of this - over the past year, but his breath caught in his throat every single time. As the hand closed around him, Sebastian let out a soft sigh.

“I really do like your habit of sleeping naked, you know,” Jim said, following it with an appreciative hum. Sebastian’s eyelids dropped.

“No, no, no,” the criminal crooned, bringing a hand up to the other man’s cheek. “Don’t spoil the fun. Eyes on me.”

Sebastian was completely unsurprised to see the smug grin on his boss’s face. The eye contact had an almost hypnotic effect. He watched Jim’s gaze flick between his own, glance down to his mouth, then back up. The proximity, following so quickly after the nightmare, triggered a sudden flash, and the brown irises – no, a single blue iris – stared, begged, began to dull, and Sebastian’s muscles tensed as he flinched back, trying to get away, trying to…

Jim’s grip tightened. He moved to the head to slowly draw the foreskin back. Everything was thrown into full clarity as Sebastian gasped, and Jim’s eyes were brown again.

“It’s quite the treat, you know, having you keep your mouth shut for once,” Jim grinned and settled back, propped up on one elbow once again. Sebastian said nothing, just concentrated fully on his regular inhales and exhales. He kept his eyes open, as he’d been told, and closed off everything around him. The thin beam from the streetlight that crept through the crack in the curtains, the slight rustle as Jim adjusted his position again, his own light gasps as he was coaxed to hardness – Sebastian shut them all out. Jim’s hands and Jim’s eyes – those were the things that mattered. And, as much as he detested the fact, those were the things that would bring him back down.

The pace remained slow. Jim’s breathing came deep and measured through his nose; his contentment clear in the attention he paid to the task at hand. The soft skin moving easily over Sebastian’s rapidly-hardening shaft, the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the dark brown eyes locked onto his – he relished every moment. He brushed his thumb over the sensitive head, applying a hint of pressure to the frenulum as he passed back down. Sebastian gasped and arched off the bed. His hips began to move in almost perfect rhythm, rising up to meet each downward pass of Jim’s hand.

For several minutes, the only sounds in the room were the slick slide of skin on skin punctuated with regular gasps and light groans from Sebastian. His eyes, wide and unblinking, stayed locked on Jim’s. The longer it went on, the further the dust and the explosions were pushed from his mind. Soon, all that was left was Jim. The slight spice of his cologne drifted between them, invading Sebastian’s senses, consuming him. For years the individual scents within had eluded him, until he’d caught the mildest hint of it while walking through a market in India. Cardamom and sandalwood. He’d stayed at that stall for an embarrassingly long time.

As the familiar heat began to pool in the pit of his stomach, Sebastian’s head dipped. His damp forehead came to rest on Jim’s collarbone. The scent was concentrated there, almost to the point of being unbearable. He pressed his mouth into the sharp bone, inhaling deeply. His cock twitched in response. Jim noticed immediately and moved down to the base, squeezing lightly to hold the rapidly-approaching orgasm back for a few more precious seconds. His own head dropped to the pillow as he snaked his hand around the back of Sebastian’s neck where he held fast, pressing his fingernails into the soft skin, marking it, urging Sebastian to move closer, to take everything he needed.

And he did.

Sebastian came with a drawn-out sigh. His eyes fluttered closed and one hand clutched at Jim’s back. Words of encouragement fell from Jim’s lips as he stroked him through it –pet names, assurances that it was fine, that he was fine, reminders to focus on here and now. Sebastian’s pained groan was muffled against Jim’s skin, but he pressed in further, savouring the increased sensitivity.

It didn’t take long for his senses to come back. He let the words wash over him, the falseness and the insincerity of them pushed forcefully to the back of his mind. He stayed there, crushed into Jim’s fully clothed body, until the heat became uncomfortable. Jim’s hand remained on the back of his neck, although the urgency of the grip had disappeared. The other hand still rested loosely around his softening cock and, for a moment, Sebastian considered apologising for the mess.

He rolled onto his back with a muttered curse. The ceiling above was in sharp focus. Small patterns in the plaster seemed to dance in the morning light, and the thin shafts of sunlight fell exactly as they always did at this time of the morning. Sebastian blinked slowly. Beside him, Jim moved to a sitting position, letting out a self-satisfied huff of laughter as he looked down at the entirely spent man beside him. He sat, knees drawn up and spread wide, elbows resting on them as he pulled a box of tissues from the nightstand and began to wipe his hand clean. He studied Sebastian’s face as he did so, noting the disappearance of the frown lines and the tension in his jaw. The sniper looked suddenly younger, and certainly less troubled than he had twenty minutes ago.

“Go back to sleep. All your jobs today are cancelled,” Jim said firmly. After pausing to drop the box of tissues on the bed, he rose. He was gone before Sebastian had a chance to protest. 


End file.
